Nicely Done
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Sherlock drags a sick Molly out in the middle of the night to help with a case. When he realises just how sick she really is, he makes a decision. -one shot-


_The lovely and talented MrsMCrieff was sick last week, so I wrote her this story. I posted it on tumblr, then got caught up in the SAW business and didn't get a chance to post it here...so. Anyhoo, it's rated **T** (naughty words!). Thanking MizJoley for looking over it for me. _

_I own nothing. Enjoy~Lil~_

* * *

Molly woke up with the driest mouth in history and Sherlock's voice echoing in her pounding head. _I must be dreaming…_

"You're not dreaming, Molly. Now that you're awake, I need you to get dressed and come with me," he said, sounding more than a little annoyed.

" _Noooo_ ," she grumbled, rolling away from the man who had invaded her home to wake her in the middle of the night. "I can't breathe!" It felt like her sinuses were currently occupied by a small family of angry badgers.

"Of course you can breathe, don't be melodramatic. I _will_ carry you if necessary!"

"I'm sick, Sherlock! Have you no heart?" she whined as he tugged away her covers and a blast of cool air hit her overheated body.

He chuckled and started pulling up her by the arms. "You know for a fact that I don't. Get up! You may be a little sick, Molly, but Mrs. Buffy Bracegirdle is quite dead and I'm one lab test away from solving her murder."

She sat up on the edge of her bed, her head spinning and said, "You made that name up."

"I did not. We need to pull the autopsy report and when we do, you'll see that she was aptly named. I imagine she was very well acquainted with all sorts 'slimming garments'. Not unlike my brother." He helped her to her feet then, with one arm around her waist and the other on her forearm, guided her to the bathroom. "If you'd been working like a good little pathologist rather than taking the day off, I would have it solved by now." With a wave of his hand he added, "Now, make yourself presentable."

Ten minutes later Molly had cleaned her teeth, washed her face and brushed her ratty hair. She walked into her kitchen in search of food to find Sherlock going through her laptop. "I _just_ changed the password, Sherlock!" she moaned as she poured herself a glass of juice. After taking a drink, she immediately spit it into the sink. "Blah! Toothpaste and orange juice!" Giving up on the prospect of food, she turned back to the _consulting annoyance_ sitting at her kitchen island. "Just let me change and I'll be ready."

He jumped up, forgetting his computer hacking for the moment, and grabbed Molly by the arm. "You look fine. Let's go." Then he dragged her toward the front door.

"I'm in my jammies, you idiot!" she said, jerking out of his hold.

"It's the middle of the night, Molly. No one will see you. Now come on, we've wasted enough time with all your primping and juice spitting."

No one would see her? Of course not, no one except the dishy security guard, Fernando. Every time she saw him, she thought of Lady Gaga. _Great, now my splitting, mucus-filled head has a song stuck in it._ Walking into the lab in her fuzzy pink panda pajamas (feeling very lucky that he'd let her put on shoes), she immediately pulled the report he needed, confirming that deceased was indeed named 'Buffy Bracegirdle'. Poor woman. "Now what do you need me to do?" she asked.

"Just sit and try not to contaminate anything," he said as he took the report from her.

He only needed her clearance for this one, _thank God_! If she had to look into a microscope she thought she might be sick... _er_. Sitting down in the darkest part of the lab, she leant against the cool wall. _I wish I'd taken something before I left,_ she thought as she watched him fluttering around from one station to another. A cold chill shuddered through her body, followed by a coughing fit. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, he was in the zone. She closed her eyes and decided to try to get some sleep. She was out within a matter of minutes.

Some time later she woke up coughing again, her throat rough and sore. "I'm going to make some tea, Sherlock," she said as she passed him. "You want anything?"

"Coffee," he replied without looking away from his notes. "Black, two sugars."

She smiled and shook her head.

It took her fifteen harrowing minutes to make the beverages. Twice she had to sit down because she felt dizzy and lightheaded, but she finally made it back into the lab, cups in hand. "Here you go." She sat the coffee next to his notebook and wandered back to her spot. He didn't seem to have noticed. He was alternating between messing with the microscope and his mobile. Molly drank about half of her tea, enjoying how the warm beverage felt on her throat but, unfortunately, her fever seemed to get even worse.

* * *

Once the tests confirmed his deductions, Sherlock messaged Lestrade and called out for Molly. She didn't answer. He looked around the lab and finally found her propped up in the corner, asleep. As he got closer he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. _Damn, she really is sick,_ he thought as he put his hand on her forehead. "Molly…"

She opened her eyes a fraction.

"You're hot."

"I've always wanted to hear you say that," she said with a half smile.

"And loopy. Let's get you home." He helped her up and walked her to the door.

"What about Miss Pantygirdle? Isshe still dead?" she slurred.

"Yes, her younger sister laced her insulin with poison, just as I thought," he explained as they walked toward the lift.

"That's not very nice."

"Murderers aren't generally nice, Molly."

"Jim was nice," she said dreamily.

Sherlock stopped walking so abruptly that she almost fell forward. "What?" he asked, as he steadied her. "Moriarty was…"

"Mmhmm, I was crying about _something_ once… what was is? My dad?" She looked at him as if he might know, then shook her head. "No, it wasn't that. I think maybe I got hurt or something…" She trailed off, looking confused. "Anyway, doesn't matter, he made me hot cocoa with little marshmallows. He even watched telly with me. Course he was only nice when he needed to be." She shrugged and giggled, then her eyes went wide. "I feel funny," she said just before passing out.

Sherlock caught her easily and picked her up, carrying her to the lift. As he pressed the button for the ground floor, never took his eyes off of the woman in his arms.

He felt like the world's biggest arse.

* * *

Molly woke up once again parched, though her head felt better and her fever seemed to be lower. Looking around her room, she noticed that something was very much wrong. _How the fuck did I end up in Sherlock's bed?_ Sitting up, she realised that her jammies had been exchanged for an oversized tee shirt. _Bloody hell!_ Then she heard voices.

"...left a hospital! A place where they _heal sick people_ , by the way, and brought Molly to your flat, to your bed? Have you lost your mind?"

 _Why is John here?_ she wondered, looking around the room for her clothes.

"She's got a cold, John, not a severed limb," she heard Sherlock reply.

"She passed out, Sherlock! You had to carry her to the cab AND into your flat! The fact that no one stopped you either says something about society or what people have come to expect from you. I find both possibilities disturbing."

"You would," the detective responded with a loud snort.

"According to you, she didn't even wake up when you changed her clothes. Which we need to talk about later, by the way."

"Why?" Sherlock sounded confused even through the closed door.

" _Why_? Because you don't undress unconscious women, you awkward fuck!" John shouted.

Okay, that was enough! Molly looked around until she found a dressing gown (her clothes were nowhere in sight). After rolling up the sleeves, she opened the door and walked down the hall. The feuding friends were in the kitchen. John looked guilty; Sherlock looked smug.

"Where are my clothes, Sherlock?" she asked calmly.

"Mrs. Hudson's washing them. They were soaked with perspiration."

"Just say sweat, you pretentious git!" John said as he stood. He walked to Molly and put the back of his hand against her forehead. "I don't think you still have a fever, but let me double check." He turned to Sherlock and said, "You're an idiot," as he left.

"What happened?" Molly asked as she sat down.

"You passed out. I brought you here and took care of you. What do you remember?"

"The lab. A girdle... I think and something about insulin? Was my blood sugar low?"

"No, though I imagine you should try to eat something. The insulin was to do with the case." He paused and looked her over. "You were just dehydrated. Once I got you home… er, here, I managed to get your fever down."

"How?"

He rolled his eyes. "I sat with you in bed, kept cold flannels on your neck and chest and made you sip water," he explained. "I don't think you ever fully woke up."

"Oh… that was… sweet."

He nodded casually, but for the briefest of moments gave her a look that she simply couldn't place. She felt like she was missing something. Just then John came back into the room, fussing about her temperature and shoving a thermometer in her face.

"Well, you're normal," he announced after reading it. "Unlike _Dr. Holmes_ here. Just take some paracetamol if it spikes again. I'm heading out if you want me to drop you home."

She stood, quickly followed by Sherlock. "No, she'll be staying," he said.

"Oh, that's not necess…" Molly started, only to be interrupted by John.

"Can I talk to you… privately?" He motioned with his head toward the sitting room.

Sherlock didn't budge. "No. You can go so that I can see to Molly's recovery. You'd just send her home, alone? What if she gets dehydrated again, what if…?"

"She wouldn't have gotten dehydrated in the first place if you hadn't dragged her to the lab in the middle of the night!" John insisted.

"Really, I'm…" she tried to interject, but it wasn't happening. They were on a roll; she felt like she was watching tennis match.

"You know, I shouldn't have even phoned you, John. All you've done is harp and judge." He turned to Molly. "He insinuated that I did something improper by undressing you. How absurd!"

"She's your pathologist, Sherlock, not your girlfriend! You can't just go around undressing women against their will!" John shouted.

"She's _not_ just my pathologist, you angry little troll! _She's my Molly!_ If she's sick, _I'll_ take care of her. If she's sad, _I'll_ make her smile. If anyone has the right to remove sweat-soaked clothes from her person, it's _me_! And if you'd just have left when you said you would, I could have told her all of this in private!"

Silence descended on the kitchen in 221B Baker Street. Molly was staring at Sherlock, John was staring at Molly and Sherlock couldn't seem to decide where to look. He finally settled on the floor.

"Well then," John said. "Ah, I'll just…" He started to leave, but stopped in the hallway and turned around. "You could've just said you fancied her, you know." Then he left with a wink.

Sherlock glanced up at Molly, then back to the doorway where John had just disappeared. "I'll go check with Mrs. Hudson about your clothes."

Molly grabbed his arm to stop him. "What happened last night?"

"What do you mean?"

She moved closer (but not too close, considering that she was sick and probably had breath that could kill a small mammal). "I mean, something's different, something happened. What?"

"I did wake you in the middle of the night, Molly. John was… right, I suppose. But I'll never tell him that," he said. "I'll fetch your clothes and see if Mrs. Hudson has anything to eat. I certainly don't."

"Okay. I didn't do anything stupid, did I?" she said as she started to sit in a kitchen chair. "I can't remember much…"

"Don't sit there!" he nearly shouted causing Molly to jump back to her feet. "Ah, it's… the settee would be more comfortable." He took her hand and led her into the sitting room.

She was starting to feel dizzy again, but she thought it might have more to do with Sherlock's strange behaviour and… _what the hell did he mean by 'his Molly?_ '. Thankfully, she was seated by then and her head started to clear before he returned.

"Hot cocoa," he said, handing her a mug.

"Sherlock?"

"Mrs. Hudson didn't have any marshmallows." He sat next to her. "She's making you cheese on toast, hope that's okay."

"Sherlock?"

"Your clothes are in the dryer, shouldn't be much longer. But you're welcome to wear my…"

" _Sherlock_!" she interrupted. "What is going on? What did you mean and why are you treating me like… like…"

"I can be nice!" he said loudly. "I'd like to be nice… to you."

Smiling, she took a sip of cocoa. Hoping that she'd finally figured out his odd behaviour, she asked, "So, I'm not _just_ your pathologist anymore?"

He shook his head. "Apparently not," he answered with a smirk. "Shall we see what's on the telly?"

"Sure." Molly leaned back on the sofa while Sherlock found the remote.

An hour later, she was fed and snuggled up against the detective watching the end of The Great British Bake-Off. She looked up at him; he actually seemed interested in the programme, even though she knew better. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said with a tired smile and started to sit up.

"You don't have to leave." He tightened his grip around her shoulder. "Don't you want to watch Come Dine With Me? It's coming on next."

"I need the loo." She got up then said, "I'd rather watch Ripper Street, though."

"That sounds like fun. What's it about?"

"Exactly what you think," she answered. "And Sherlock, this has been really nice."

* * *

By the time Molly had finally fallen to sleep (across Sherlock's chest), they had not only watched Ripper Street (which he found delightful) but an episode of Grantchester and two Midsomer Murders. He hadn't enjoyed the cooking show, but the others were… interesting. What was even more interesting was the the feeling of Molly's warm little body pressed against his.

"Molly, come on. Let's go to bed," he said as he adjusted his arm.

" _Noooo_. I'm warm," she grumbled, not opening her eyes. "Just a little longer and I'll go home."

Sherlock stood and picked her up then carried her to his room. "You are home, Molly," he said as he laid her down.

"Hmmm?" She yawned and rolled over.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, which he hadn't looked at all night, to find a text from his best friend.

 **Is she still there? -JW**

 _Yes,_ Sherlock replied. _And she's fine. No fever._

 **Is she in your bed again? -JW**

 _Not that it's any of your business, but yes._

 **Nicely done, Sherlock. -JW**

With a smirk, he put his phone on the table and changed clothes. Climbing into bed, he pulled Molly against his chest, where she belonged. As he drifted of to sleep listening to her soft snores, he vowed to never again drag her out in the middle of the night for a case. Besides, there were much more pleasant things to do at such times.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! ~Lil~_


End file.
